


Comfort Food

by twinewool (colouredwool)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 05:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colouredwool/pseuds/twinewool
Summary: Juno Steel claims he’s a decent cook. So here’s a domestic AU in which Peter wonders about Juno’s habit of feeding him up whenever he visits.





	Comfort Food

“I’m not your taxi, Peter.”

“It’s lovely to see you too, Juno darling.” Peter grins, and leans through the open car window to kiss Juno hello.

It’s been a month or so since they’ve last seen one another, and whilst Juno had been grouchy over the comms about picking Peter up from the shuttle port, he'd clearly driven out here as soon as he'd dropped the call.

“You're a life saver. A true marvel,” Peter declares, and gives Juno two more kisses, one to each corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Get in.” Juno ducks away, not quite hiding a smile as he closes the window. Peter chuckles and makes his way round to the passenger side.

As the car drives out of the lot and slips into the main stream of traffic, Peter heaves a dramatic sigh and slumps back in his seat. “Gosh, I'm exhausted.”

“What, you mean you didn't get your beauty sleep on the shuttle? Thought you were flying out on the SS Luxurious. Champagne, spa treatment, the lot.”

“Ah, well. Adal Stone may have travelled in style to Titan, but Simone Olivares paid his way back to Mars via third-rate cargo ship.”

Juno glances at him out the corner of his eye. “You worked your passage?”

“One week. Cattle transport. Livestock do need tending to, and whilst ten hour shifts are nothing to complain about in that line of work, the sleeping quarters leave much to be desired.” Peter sniffs. “Rather too close to our bovine companions to be entirely comfortable.”

Juno smirks, clearly amused. “It’s pretty hard to imagine you knee deep in crap, cleaning out pens all day.”

“Well, as much as I enjoy the glamour of the high-life, there are many advantages to the migrant worker gig. A certain level of invisibility in exchange for short-lived discomfort is a very good deal I've found. Though I assure you all articles of Simone’s clothing have been thoroughly disposed of.”

“Good to know.”

The streets are getting busier now, and the neon lights and plasma tubes of the all-night diners and dive bars glow through the evening smog.

“I've been surviving on nutrient paste and carb crackers for the past week.” Peter says, staring longingly at a commercial for the latest fresh noodle bar in Hyperion West. “Every day. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, can you believe it Juno? I'm dying for some real food.”

“Mmm.” Juno glances out at the streets. “Radiation’s higher than normal tonight. We can eat when we get back to the apartment.”

Peter hums in agreement and smiles. He knows what that means. Even if Juno's cupboards are bare at the best of times, they must be stocked enough to make a meal for two today.

It was funny sometimes, the excuses Juno made so he could sit Peter down and cook for him. Saving money, staying out of the rain, avoiding a certain nasty someone he'd gotten on the wrong side of during a case. He'd tease Juno about it more, were he not afraid he might take it the wrong way and stop offering all together.

Not that Juno's repertoire was very sophisticated. Meals mostly consisted of whatever non-perishables could be found in Juno's little kitchen – and canned beans, freeze-dried veg, and jarred sauces can only go so far. But the look of contentment on Juno's face as a stew or stir-fry came together, and the quiet sense of accomplishment he radiated as he served Peter a bowl of something hot and home cooked…well, Peter wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They hit a snarl of three-storey traffic halfway into the city, and Peter regales Juno with the story of his latest heist whilst the car crawls slowly along. There’s a trillionaire mining magnate who’s one vault of precious ruthenium down, and an asteroid base of organised renegades who have a sudden influx of resources. The magnate will be none the wiser for at least another month due to Peter’s excellent, and very well paid for, discretion. Long enough, Peter has been told, for his clients to make headway on a plan to undermine the monopoly held over asteroid 11-N27 and instate a Titan-side crackdown. It’s a story with a streak of underdog heroism that he thinks Juno will appreciate, and he’s rewarded with Juno’s rapt attention and wise-crack comments until they reach the apartment.

Peter heads straight to the shower as soon as they get in the door, and Juno calls after him to warn about the dodgy thermostat. The shower is still warm, even if the water pressure is ghastly, and Peter spends a good few minutes just standing under the water before it runs colder than he can bear.

He squeezes out of the bathroom and half-heartedly dries himself off whilst peering into Juno’s wardrobe. After some deliberation, he pulls on a loose smock-dress he’s seen Juno bundled up in a few times before, broad enough in the shoulders to fit him, though it hangs hopelessly above his knees. More importantly it’s soft, comfortable, and carries the scent of Juno in its synthetic weave. He wanders out into the main room and folds himself up on the couch, watching Juno move in and out of view through the kitchen doorway. The room is warm and dimly lit, and Peter slowly dozes off as his lack of sleep catches up on him.

The sound of a spoon banging on the rim of a pan jolts him awake, and there’s a delicious aroma of fried onion and spices in the air.

“Juno, that smells _heavenly_ ,” he calls through to the kitchen, words half muffled in a yawn. He hears a soft laugh and Juno appears in the doorway, smiling as he watches Peter sit up blearily.

“Food’s nearly done.” He disappears again.

Peter shuffles off the couch with another yawn and follows after. A large pot stands on the hob as Juno stirs its contents – something with green leaves, dark beans, and a red, creamy sauce. A box of instant rice stands on the side, steaming.

“It’s just curry,” Juno says, scooping the rice and sauce into two bowls.

The rest of the curry is left in the pan, no doubt to be boxed and stuffed in the freezer later. Whether thrifty batch cooking or preparation before the inevitable downtime of a depression slump, Peter isn’t sure. As much as Juno lets self-care slide by the wayside most days (weeks, months, years), there are certain habits Peter is glad to see when he visits.

The table is covered in case-related folders and piles so they curl up on opposite sides of the couch instead, bowls in their laps.

Peter tucks in eagerly; the smell has been making his mouth water for the past five minutes. Hunger might be the best spice, but he’s honestly impressed. Such a rich blend of flavours and a fiery kick every few bites is hard to pull off with freeze-dried veg and canned paste, and he eats it up in minutes.

“That was the most wonderful meal I've had in months, Juno." Peter sets down his bowl with a blissful sigh. "My stomach and heart could not be more content.”

Juno huffs sceptically from across the couch and raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite of his own food. “You told me the head honcho of Guabonito mining treated you to fresh Titan-bred salmon a few weeks ago.”

Peter leans over and kisses Juno on the cheek. “And not one morsel of that meal compares to this.”

Juno frowns, but his mouth is soft at the corners, the sure sign of Juno Steel holding back a smile. Peter keeps his face close, lingering, and lets his own smile distract Juno long enough that he can slip his spoon round and steal a mouthful of curry from Juno’s unfinished bowl.

“Hey!”

Peter laughs as Juno swipes at him, and he falls back on his side of the couch. “My compliments to the chef!”

“Cook for yourself next time.”

“And deprive myself of your culinary talents? I would never.”

Juno pointedly finishes off the rest of his food, depositing the bowl where there’s a clear space amongst the mess of the table. He stretches out and pokes his toes at Peter’s bare knees.

“You know, I’ve never seen you cook.”

Peter barks out a laugh. “Yes. There’s a reason for that.”

“Huh.” Juno sounds genuinely surprised. “You’ve never impersonated some master chef in all your off-world adventures? Picked up some flashy moves with a spatula to rob some poor sucker?”

“Why Juno, love, you give me too much credit.” Peter hums and leans back into the cushions. “I did actually learn enough to pass as a sous chef once – it takes a bit of work to convincingly slip away into a working kitchen, but it makes a tidy getaway. I can’t say I’ve ever actually had to put edible food on a plate before though.”

“Not even a pasta bake?”

Peter shakes his head in mock shame. “Not even a pasta bake.” He shrugs elegantly into the cushions. “I’ve never had the right motivation to learn, I suppose.”

For a moment Juno's expression is oddly serious, but his face scrunches up into something else before Peter can pin it down.

If it was anyone else Peter might take the opportunity to ask how Juno learnt to cook - flatter him along the way. But from what Peter knows of Juno’s past he can piece together an unhappy origin story on his own. An absent mother, a too often empty stomach, and the complaints of a hungry brother that Juno shouldn’t have felt the burden of.

The hunger pangs of childhood are an ugly thing to know that he and Juno have shared, but there’s an understanding there. He knows by now how far back Juno saw in his memories all those years ago, and he thinks Juno has an inkling of what it means to have someone offer him the care of a home cooked meal. Something not scavenged from bins and stalls, not rations eaten between work as necessary fuel, not a ridiculous, lavish indulgence laid out as an exhibition of a client’s wealth and grandeur. Peter has experienced both ends of the scale and he finds himself apathetic to food most days.

But a bowl of curry and rice made in a little kitchen, put together from grocery store runs and knowledge born of habitual trial and error. It's so foreign to him. A boring, domestic part of a life he’s never lived or cared for, yet in the hands of someone new becomes a meaningful, precious thing. Something he wants to keep.

Peter pulls himself out of his thoughts to find Juno watching him from across the couch, and he reflexively tries to distract from his odd silence.

“Am I an awful glutton if I ask for dessert?”

Juno eyes him a little longer.

“I've got whiskey.”

“Hmm.” Peter holds back a smile.

“There's some real awful cherry brandy Rita got me sitting in the back of the cupboard.”

“Acceptable.”

Juno fetches glasses and liqueur and tells Peter about his most recent case as they cautiously sip overly-sweet brandy. The latest antics of Juno’s worryingly forgetful (but terribly rich) client and Rita’s chaotic genius entertain them for a good while, and the drinks go down until there's a quiet lull.

Juno puts a hand on Peter’s knee, right where the too-short dress has risen up, and traces the hem with his fingers.

“You’ve been stealing my clothes again.”

“Hmm. So I have. Would you like me to give them back?” Peter smiles, all sharp teeth.

Juno pauses only slightly. “Depends what you’re wearing underneath.”

“Juno!” Peter laughs, delighted. He shuffles closer so Juno’s fingers stray under the hem a little further, and pitches his voice low. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

“Finish your drink first,” Juno says and takes a moment to down the last of his own glass. “Someone ought to appreciate Rita’s terrible taste in alcohol.”

Peter pulls a face. “Appreciate is a strong word.”

He drinks the dregs dutifully, wincing slightly at the burn as he puts down his empty glass, and is rewarded with a long, slow kiss as Juno crawls on top of him and pushes him back into the cushions.

 

\---

 

Later, Peter wanders into the kitchen and surveys the stack of dirty pots and cutlery as he fills a glass of water from the tap.

“Someone ought to do the dishes,” he calls through the doorway.

There’s a sleepy huff from the other room. “I cooked.”

“True. I think that’s an equitable exchange.”

Peter is in a very good mood right now, so he waltzes out to hand Juno the glass of water, and waltzes back in with the rest of the dishes to fill the sink. It doesn’t take long to scrub, rinse, and leave everything drying on the rack, and he comes back into the main room humming and wiping his hands on a towel.

“Quite the domestic little routine you’ve caught me in, Juno.”

Juno’s half asleep on the couch, but Peter catches the way his shoulders tense at his words, the wary frown forming on his face. Peter quickly leans over and kisses him on the forehead. “I’m not complaining. In fact it’s rather lovely to come back to.”

Juno’s shoulders relax, and Peter wonders where that tension came from. A thread to follow and unwind another day, perhaps.

“Maybe I ought to teach you how to make pasta. You can treat me some time,” Juno murmurs, closing his eyes again.

Peter traces Juno’s cheek absentmindedly, and thinks about what it might be like to stand side-by-side with Juno in his tiny kitchen. Chopping vegetables, portioning out pasta and beans, measuring spices and seasoning and stock. Putting a plate in front of Juno with a flourish and more nerves than he'd ever admit. Tucking boxes of leftovers in the freezer in the hope that Juno will turn to them when the days are long, or miserable, or just damn busy.

It would be something, perhaps, to offer Juno some comfort food on the days when he can’t be here to offer comfort in person.

“Yes,” Peter murmurs to an already sleeping Juno. “I think I’d like that.”

 

 


End file.
